Hard Day's Knight (30 page)

“Next time try somewhere else.”

“Come along, Pepper, we don’t have all day! Vandal and I are to squire Walker. Let’s see you make a run at the quintain.”

I will admit to being a bit cocky as I took the lance from her, couching it against the saddle as I rode Cassie to the end opposite the quintain, turning her and lining her up with the white wooden structure. “Quintains are old hat,” I told Cassie as I took a deep breath and focused as Bliss had instructed me the day before. “I’ve jousted with a real person. This is gonna be a piece of cake. Hah!”

Cassie jumped forward at the yell, my legs tightening against her sides, the lance clamped down in my armpit with my hand directly behind the protective vamplate. As I approached the quintain, I lowered the lance into the couched position, holding it steady as Cassie cantered easily toward the wooden target.

I think I was smiling when the lance tip touched the shield nailed onto the quintain. I wasn’t smiling a minute later when I managed to shake the stars from my head and sit up.

“Wha’ happened?” I asked, dazedly noting that Cassie had stopped a few feet away and was happily cropping the grass. “What’s wrong with that quintain? Did you nail down the swing arm or something? Isn’t it supposed to swing when I connect with it?”

“This is a shock quintain,” Bliss said neutrally as she hauled me to my feet. I clung to the stirrups for a few seconds just to make sure my legs were going to hold me. I wasn’t hurt, other than a slight bruising on my right hip, but the . . . well, there’s no other word for it but
shock
of the blow left me mentally reeling. “It doesn’t move. Your goal is to hit the quintain hard enough to knock it all the way over onto the shield on the back. We use them to get jousters accustomed to taking a blow, and to hone their targeting skills.”

I glared at the quintain. It did indeed have two shields, mounted on either side, about seven feet off the ground. Four sturdy legs were bolted onto a wooden platform that sprouted two wooden braces projecting horizontally on either side. I gathered it was supposed to rock back under a blow, but my still-tingling fingers and sore armpit were testament to its not having much give to it at all. “You could have warned me,” I groused, rubbing my side. “I think I broke my armpit.”

“You’re holding your lance wrong,” Bliss said, bending down and putting her hands out for me to step into. “You also were using an incorrect seat, your grip on the lance could easily have broken your wrist, and you jerked back on Cassie’s mouth when you struck the quintain. We’ll have to work on all of those things. Get on; we don’t have much time before we have to go.”

“Huh-uh,” I said, shaking my head and backing away from both the horse and the monster in Bliss clothes. “That thing is evil. I like jousting against you better. It doesn’t hurt nearly so much.”

“I can’t joust with you until after the competition is over. It’s too chancy; I can’t risk your making a wild blow and taking me out of the competition. Butcher said he’ll take the chance and joust with you later, but I won’t until you’ve had more training.”

I shook my head. “Then I’ll just wait until you have more time—after the competition is fine by me. . . .”

“Quitting again?”

My spine snapped from its “this mail is heavy” slouch into a perfectly vertical line as I slowly turned and faced the owner of the deep voice that slipped over me like silk.

“I am
not
quitting. I’m simply going to wait until a time when Bliss can joust with me personally.”

“She’ll have to go home after the competition,” Walker said evenly, his eyes shaded by the period black wool hat he wore. It had a curved brim, and made him look like something out of a medieval tapestry—a
sexy
medieval tapestry. He was leaning against a sign warning people not to drink the water out of the attached tap, looking handsome and masculine and very, very scrumptious in his gold-and-red surcoat and black mail. I swallowed down the thrill of excitement my traitorous body gloried in whenever he was near, and reminded myself that although he was everything wonderful, he was also a very large pain in the patootie.
My
patootie. “Which means that you’re quitting. That’s a rather
cowardly
act, don’t you think?”

I let my nostrils flare at him for a second, just so he’d know how peeved I was with him, then spun around and marched over to Cassie, hauling myself onto her back on the first try. “Lance,” I said, holding out my hand for an unbroken lance.

Bliss handed it to me, snapping out a series of orders. “Hold the lance from the underside rather than the top. Lean in a little more than what you’ve been doing. The minute the lance touches, drop the reins so you won’t harm Cassie’s mouth, and push through the target. Aim a bit high—the closer you are to perpendicular, the more shock you’ll feel. Leave a little more lance behind you, and it’ll be easier to hold—eighteen inches is about right. The reason you went off the last time is because you struck the target lower than your armpit, which pushed you back and up, out of the saddle, so keep your aim higher than what you’ve been doing. And don’t fight the saddle—use the high back to brace you, but don’t forget to use your knees and thighs to grip Cassie against the shock. Ready? Go ahead.”

I gave Walker a long look as I turned Cassie, trotting her to the far end of the field. Damn Walker, he just stood there watching me, a slight smile on his lips as though he were anticipating my fall before it happened.

“What a big poop. Why did I have to pick him to fall in love with, Cassie?” The horse’s ears moved as she shook her head, mouthing the bit in an excited way. “Right. Whatever. Let’s try to make this a good one, ’kay?”

I dug my heels in, leaning forward and deliberately loosening the reins as she cantered toward the target. I adjusted my hold on the lance, raising it and leaning forward, trying to remember everything Bliss had just told me. The lance connected with a loud splintering, crashing noise that reverberated down my arm into my back, twisting me slightly in the saddle. I dropped the reins, cartwheeling my left hand for balance as I leaned even farther forward, throwing my weight into the lance. The shock quintain rocked backward on its base, teetered on the projecting braces for a second, then suddenly gave and fell onto its back.

A victorious cheer rose in my throat. I’d done it, and Walker had seen me!
Coward, ha!
I sure showed him who lacked the courage to try something difficult!

Cassie, feeling no pressure from the reins and no doubt seeing the quintain fall, decided that she’d done her part, and such good behavior deserved an appropriate reward. She stopped suddenly and dropped her head to graze. Unfortunately, I was still leaning forward, throwing my weight into the lance as it pushed through the quintain . . . which was no longer there.

I went right over her head, landing spread-eagled on my face in the dirt and grass.

“Pepper? Are you in here? Dammit, where has she gotten to?”

I stood up from where I’d been crouched next to Marley’s leg, examining the wound. “Keep your shorts on; I’m here. What’s up?”

CJ, half turned to leave the stable, marched over to me and thrust her pugnacious face in mine. “
What’s up
? We have a Wench Promenade in three minutes—that’s three minutes—and you’ve spent the whole day hiding because you and Walker are on the outs. Well, you can just knock it off and get your butt in gear, cousin, because this Promenade is an important part of Faire tradition, and I’m not going to allow you to screw it up! Thank God you’ve got your garb on. Come on; we don’t have any time to waste.”

“But Ceej,” I whined, grabbing Moth from where he was sitting in Marley’s feed bucket. “I don’t want to Promenade!”

“You’ll do it and you’ll like it,” she said grimly, walking so fast that even I with my long legs had to hurry. “You’ve sulked all day long because Walker saw you fall off your horse when you were trying to impress him, but it’s time you grew up and stopped thinking only of yourself.”

“Oh, yes, my selfishness is legendary,” I huffed, hoisting a disgruntled Moth higher as I scurried after my cousin. It wasn’t easy, since the Faire was in full swing, and the walkways were crammed full of Faire-goers, some decked out in full garb. Trailing CJ as she headed for the Promenade starting point at the far end of the vendors’ row, I shook my head at a woman whose dalmatian was wearing an Elizabethan ruff and saucy feathered hat. “Imagine making that poor dog wear a hat. Some people have absolutely no idea of good taste.”

“What?” CJ asked without stopping.

“Nothing, other than that I am
not
selfish. A selfish person wouldn’t have this cat glued to her every friggin’ day.”

“I’m not going to talk to you when you’re being impossible,” CJ said, dodging a couple of girls in Celtic wear who had evidently decided to give an impromptu demonstration of Scottish dancing. “Hurry up, we’re going to be late! Honestly, I can’t imagine why someone with legs as long as yours walks as slow as a slug. Fairuza! Is everyone gathered?”

I grumbled to myself as CJ and Fairuza consulted for a moment, hastily taking my place with the gathered Wenches as CJ turned to scowl at me. “I am not selfish,” I muttered as I snapped Moth’s leash onto the gold-and-amber jeweled and beaded harness I’d purchased for him earlier, setting him on the ground and giving his horns a quick tweak before straightening up. If I had to Promenade, he had to Promenade, too.

Fairuza and CJ, finished with their whispered consultation, turned to face the ten gathered Wenches. “Wenches, we are about to commence the first Promenade of this season.”

“Huzzah!” the women around me yelled.

“Yay,” I said without much fervor.

Moth licked his privates.

“For the benefit of those new Harlots amongst us,” CJ said with a pointed glance at me, “we will briefly cover the rules of the Wench Promenade. First of all, does everyone have their lipstick?”

“Yea, verily,” the assorted Wenches cried, everyone quickly pulling tubes of lipstick from their pouches or pockets and waving them at CJ. She glared at me until I rooted around in my leather pouch and dug out my lipstick. “Excellent. Wenches, apply lipstick!”

I shared the tiny pocket mirror belonging to the Wench next to me, applying dark bloodred lipstick that clashed horribly with my hair.

“Teeth check!” CJ ordered.

My neighbor Wench bared her teeth at me.

“You’re good,” I said, then did the same.

“As you know, the purpose of this Promenade is to mark likely-looking lads. Please remember that this is a family venue, and keep your marks confined to above the markee’s waist. Also, last year we had some trouble with particularly lusty Harlots racing down targets.” The twins in the low-cut chemises whom Vandal had been flirting with earlier in the day giggled. “Wenches are not cats in heat! We do not run; we saunter saucily. When you see a potential mark, saunter up to him, announcing as you do, ‘What ho, my sisters in Wenchdom, yonder I spy me a likely-looking lad/lord/rogue. Methinks he’s ripe for a marking, what say you?’ To which the rest of you reply, ‘Verily, ’tis the truth yonder lad/lord/rogue is ripe! Have at him!’ At that point you may proceed to mark your lad, but please remember to do so in a manner that will not embarrass the gentleman.”

“And please confine wubbies to those lads who indicate they’d like to be the recipient of one,” Fairuza added, which caused the Giggle Twins to snicker. “I won’t remind you all of the incident last year when the visiting English archbishop was wubbied by a Wench, but suffice it to say that wubbies are to be given only to those individuals who first give their consent.”

“What’s a wubby?” I asked my lipstick friend, remembering Walker saying something about one the first time I had met him.

“It’s when you pull your mark’s face to your cleavage and rub it around.”

I looked at the two fleshy mounds of boob that swelled over the top of my Black Watch plaid bodice (CJ felt I shouldn’t alienate the Scots by ignoring them in my garb-wear), my entire body tingling at the thought of Walker rubbing his stubbly cheeks between my breasts. Then, of course, I imagined what it would be like for him to rub his cheeks everywhere else, and lost as I was in those thoughts, it took me a minute to realize that the Wenches were singing a lusty song.

“Sing!” CJ hissed an order to me during the chorus, shoving a small photocopied list of lyrics into my hands, and I joined in the song about the bald redheaded man and his love for dark places.

A crowd started to gather as a troupe of Rogues marched up, singing their own song about a wench with an unquenchable thirst, the men dividing to form a guard on either side of the Wenches. Fairuza made a pretty medieval-speak announcement that the Wenches were about to Promenade, and quicker than you could say, “God’s teeth, the Wenches have plentiful breasticles,” we were off.

The Wenches who were experienced at Promenading carried those of us who hadn’t a clue (which turned out to be only a short, shy little brunette and me). The crowds seemed to like us, though, laughing and applauding both the Rogues who accompanied us (pretending to keep back the thundering herds of men who were accused of wanting to dally with us), and the Wenches themselves as the ladies sang relatively PG-rated songs, pausing to pick out men they passed for marking and wubbying.

“You’re not participating,” CJ whispered furiously to me as we made our way down the now-packed vendors’ row, heading for the beer garden. The jousting was over for the day, but the evening’s entertainment—various singers and a Scottish bagpipe band—was about to begin. “Stop embarrassing me and get into character! Mark someone!”

“I am not going up to a strange man and kissing him,” I whispered back. “I’m not that kind of a Harlot.”

She pinched my arm. “You’d better become one, and fast. Everyone is looking at you because you aren’t joining in! They’ll think you’re making fun of us if you don’t play along.”